Performance
by Landerin
Summary: To miss a note is insignificant. To play without passion is inexcusable. Beethoven
1. Support

Support.

Summery: They Don't know what they've done for me.

A/n: Just something I thought up while watching my drumline captain cry the last day of his senior year.

* * *

_The things you experience here, _

_They Change You_

* * *

They don't know how much they've done for me. The Tears run down my face as we place our hands on each other's, we are the drumline, we are a family. My captian places a hand on my back, he flicks a tear away. 

"Don't cry kid, we're here to do something great."

I know, I think, I know, you guys have done so much for me; I just don't want it to end.

I just nod and stop the tears. I face backward and let out a breath, sticks at rest position, mind clear. This is what I live for.

Thinking back, I remember myself as the quiet one, couldn't hit the drum right. I had no self-esteem, just coming from a terrible bout of depression, from nothing. They built me up to everything.

A sound check proceeds and my heart begins to race with the excitement of everything. Even as a freshman, I feel like this will be my last time on that floor.

"Charleston Indoor Percussion Ensemble, you may take the floor in finals competition."

It echos over the speakers, my eyes close softly and reopen as the accelerating beginning begins.

The beating of my heart ebbs and floes during the four minute and thirty second show, pushing myself beyond all I could, trust is between the hearts of us. We are the drumline, tight as we can be.

The deceleration at the end calms my heart, lets me breathe in needed air, for I don't breathe when I march. Threats of tears prickle in the corners of my eyes, it's over, I can't believe it.

We sit in the homeroom a few minutes later, my head resting in my hands, tears running down my face. I can't stop it. Our instructors pace the front of the room, saying words of praise, support, of love. They are the only family I have.

We spend time together as one family, watching the world-class drumlines and having a blast, making fun of the lines we don't like, cheering for every line. The tightness between the line is amazing.

Now we stand in a line, one behind the other. Our hearts are racing for awards are being given. I can see him standing up there, his head held high, his hands folded behind his back. Nothin can pull him down. He has done so much for me, bringing me up, pushing me out.

"In second with an 87.6, Charleston Indoor Percussion Ensemble."

A cheer starts in the back of the stands, quickly spreading through out the gym, reverberating in my heart. The captain calmly steps up to take the award, but I can see in his face, his excitement is barely withheld. From that moment I drove myself to be that guy, the one that could do anything.

I held my chin high as I tapped off for the warm up. My senior year, I was captain. The captain I always looked up too, I pushed the drummers, I did what I could for everyone of them.

The even eights calm me as I warm my hands up, relaxing into the beat. This is my last performance. The despair in my heart is covered by my professional nature; I can't let my family see me fall apart.

"Relax," our instructor waves us down, seeing the tension in the others.

"This is for fun, relax, this is the fun one." He puts his hand on my shoulder, I feel a sob rise in my throat, and I cough it back down quickly. I don't want it to end. This is my life; don't let it be over please.

We return to the warm up, my heartbeat slowing with the beat, calming my despair.

We step on the floor; my heart bursts through a dam in my chest. I am excited, I can't hold it down. I smile at my fellow snares, patting the small ones on the back, embracing the older ones. They are my family, my life.

I take my first chart, listening for the pit to begin the piece. The duts fly from my mouth and everyone steps off. Nothing can touch me.

The time goes too fast, I can't remember the time, I did well though. I relax as we are dismissed and pull the large vibes behind me. I make it to the trailer before a tear slips down my face; I couldn't be strong for them. But they wouldn't see me.

We sit in the homeroom, and I hold my chin up, not even listening. I see the smallest freshman in the corner, tears running down her face. She doesn't want it to end either. I silently stand and walk to her, touching her shoulder.

"Don't cry, this isn't the end."

She smiles at me; I know I've done as much for her as my captain did for me.

We stand at the awards, I hold my chin high, my hands clasped behind my back. This moment is everything to me, I can remember it in my freshman year, nothing can stop me.

"In third place, with an 87.9, Charleston Indoor Percussion Ensemble"

I step forward, take the trophy. I looked right into my freshman's eyes, telling her, "You'll be here someday, you'll feel this." She looks back, her eyes tear up and I look away. She will be a captain.

I sit on the bus, alone, everyone is eating dinner. Tears run down my face, my heart beats quickly. I hear footsteps beside me, it's my freshman.

"Hey cap, everything alright?"

I look at her, her bright eyes not missing a beat, her heart still strong.

"Yes, I'm going to miss this, this feeling," I hold up the trophy, "This trophy means more to me than anything else. Because it shows how much you've all done for me."

She smiles and sits in the next seat, "Tell me."

And I was at the performance that she looked her freshman in the eyes, her face saying, "You don't know what you've done for me."

They are my support, they are my life.

They changed me.


	2. Head and Heart

A/N: yea i wrote this for a contest for school, needed to share it with people who will understand and apreciate it.

_'V'v'V' is a break,_

* * *

Some feelings can't be replicated, like the synchronization of many hearts as the beat, wood on metal, wood on skin, echoes in the auditory nerves of the many. 

Tap, tap, roll. The hands falling into the pockets of the beat, feet hitting the ground in unison, senses are sharp, adrenaline is pumping through my veins, fast heart, fast mind.

The 5 become one, head and heart in the beat, tap, tap roll, one hand, one heart, one line, the snare line.

We weren't always the tightly packed group, but five individuals, the Center, Oakey, the silent Chris, the outcast Jon, loud mouth Andy, and me, the insecure. We were all from opposite sides, opposite beats, opposite worlds, we all became one.

The rolls turn into eight single taps, each a symbol of the rapidly approaching show.

Stillness, Silence.

"You may take the field for competition," words barely heard, arms ascend, the whistle blows, the body moves, speaks a single C note, a single step. The feeling rises in my chest and the battle begins.

_'V'v'V'_

The yell of "Cut!" echoes in the chest of the band. The heat of the acrid air glancing off metal and skin.

"It may be hot, it may be sunny," the words echoed from the loud speaker, "but the feeling has to be in your movement." Waves of exhaustion from the field.

"I guarantee this will be worth it when you are standing on that field, put your heart in the music, play, perform."

_'V'v'V'_

We stand in our line, no movement save for our hands and the sweat running down our faces. A wave and a stop.

"You need to relax. Your hands I can fix, but I can't feel the energy," The small man paces, shakes his head.

"Set them down, come here."

Drums are set on the ground, a scramble toward the shade.

The small instructor looks to his pupils, "What is music? What is your definition of music?"

Various murmurs of answer follow; it's life, notes, hands, feet.

He shakes his head, "No, music is not you hands, if it was your hands I'd have that fixed, that's the easy part. _What _is music?"

Silence follows, nothing but the scattered breathing and racing hearts.

The instructor sighs, "Music isn't made with your right and left hands," a pause, he looks around, "Music is made with your head and your heart; without those, it's just noise."

_'V'v'V'_

The first hit comes, strong and loud, heads and hearts and hands in unison.

The hit ends as quickly as it begins, tempo slowly ebbing away to the end of part one.

_'V'v'V'_

The general crescendo of the subtle notes rises into my chest as it turns to a booming universal C, the basses begin their run and the quads begin their roll.

The hearts beat in one, the feet fall in, the body is one.

Everything stops and the smiles spread around; the loudspeaker announces a break and the spread of bodies relaxes into the shade.

_'V'v'V'_

The trumpets pass in front as we back into the line, horns fall down, feet face forward and movement stops with a deep breath.

Nothing moves, nothing breathes.

Dut.

The body is back in motion, close quarters move in unison, past mistakes are forgotten as pride swells. The wood hits the metal.

_'V'v'V'_

The first step is sometimes a stumble, sometimes a leap, and sometimes a fall.

The ground drops out from under my feet and reappears with a sickening crunch. Metal hits metal, metal hits skin. Seconds feel of hours as the snare digs into flesh and trumpet into skull in a tangle of limbs.

Hands grab me and pull softly, banter already beginning to echo.

A few moments of rest, a moment of healing, and then a first step, the leap.

The crabbed steps pass behind the lethal line of fire, wood is on metal, wood on head, pride swelling. The landing shocks, stillness, then celebration.

_'V'v'V'_

The usual banter and conversation bounced around the bus; some were relaxed, some hopping wildly among the plastic covered seats.

The snare line sat in the back, somewhere between relaxation and antics, sticks in motion on the gum rubber pad.

Oakey, with his usual toothpick between his lips, turns his hands into a flurry of sloppy taps, drawing chuckles from the others as he dragged fun from another.

We are close, trusting, never doubting another snare. Hearts beating as on, or as the many different parts we are.

_'V'v'V'_

Sticks fall to the sides, feet back into unison as the slowness of the third section of music dawns upon the entranced crowd. Applause explodes from the crowd and deep breaths are taken in as the hit draws near.

The body stops, wood is pulled in, then expelled and slammed against the head. The wall of sound resounds in many chests, and the booming bass line rattles conscious thought. Hearts explode in the moment, a new note hit, a rest remembered. Pride swells as horns face the box. The tempo slows as the mallets sing.

Horns fall and wood falls to the sides; air is gulped in and the beat slows to a stop.

_'V'v'V'_

The final day of band camp dawns hot and sticky. The hot sun beating down on the sweating bodies creates fatigue on the field.

A few stand at the sidelines as the formations spread around the field. The cut and the sag of posture spread around the line.

"Take five." The voice over the loud speaker from the scaffolding sends a scramble toward the shade.

Some gulp down some water, few a sport drink, while others just lie in the shade and enjoy the feeling.

Talk of the upcoming celebration at the local pool goes around with the usual conversation. It will be a welcome break from the scalding sun, the nice cool water, most say, but some aren't even going.

The break ends with a groan and small amounts of laughter. A few jokes are exchanged between the instructors. The ever popular "irking me off" sends a chuckle down the bass line. The sections are close, tight circles of trust.

There is an hour more of practice, then two more hours until the celebration and universal bonding.

_'V'v'V'_

Stillness spreads around the field in an instant. The drum Major begins the count, "One, Two, Three."

The Center Snare yells and duts the last three counts, and motion explodes in the flurry of rolls in the percussion, then to the tubas; the bass line again rattling conscious thought.

Different parts move as one, creating the breathtaking curving forms and square corners.

Autopilot is disabled, thought is shown in the eyes and in the movements.

We are one, one Heart, one head, one sound, one band.

_'V'v'V'_

The usual military-like crispness is dissolved as the cool water sits on the lounging bodies.

Small multi-section groups laugh among themselves, tying sections together into a larger knot, instead of the single sections of the body.

The celebration of "survival" continues into the night, laughter fading away into the darkness.

_'V'v'V'_

Time stumbles, the end is drawing near. The decrescendo of the percussion fades away.

The mallets roll in groups of three, timpani in groups of two, the cymbals swell and fade away.

There are slow deep breaths, fluid movements and then the final stop.

There is silence, and then the crowd explodes in applause and cheering.

Hearts soar and adrenaline pushes the pain away. The crowd stands in cheering and pride in my fellow snares swells as I fight to not grin like a jester in a king's court.

My heart is thumping in my chest and echoing in my ears as I let my tired arms hang loosely at my sides as we march. Yells of praise are dissolved in the tapping of Oakey as we leave the field, heads held high, sweat running down our faces in the cold air.

The moving body of the band stops in front of our director. His face is emotionless, rigid, as it always is. Then the ends of his lips curl into a smile, he spreads his arms and opens his mouth, and silence follows.

"My friends, you did an amazing job." Smiles all around, some sags in posture follow. He continues, "That was the best show you have done, I only saw one person's feet off, only for a brief moment. Congratulations, we'll talk later. Now go and get changed, be back here in 20 minutes to watch the last few bands."

And with that he walked away.

_'V'v'V' _

Oakey looked at us, standing together. He stood up to his full height, a grim look upon his face.

"Well guys, we've made it this far, through falls and cheerleading sessions, through football games, and through this season. It's my senior year. I just wanted to let you know, you're the best section I can ask for. Now put your hands in." He looked at all of us, all of our hearts in the single beating heart.

Our hands fell on each other, fingers together, and hearts heavy with the strange sadness of final shows.

"On Three. One, two, three. Who are we?"

Our voices answer as one, many different sounds.

"We are the drumline!"

Oakey wiped a tear, "You are my drumline."

_'V'v'V'_

The anticipation is mounting, heart rates race. The band sits together in the stands, silently hoping, praying, that their efforts are to be repaid.

Our class arrives, 5th, hearts beat faster, 4th, hearts even faster, 3rd, fastest.

"Finishing second with 85.4 points," Our section of the stands explodes in celebration as our school is called.

The best score in our band's history, hearts burst through chest and screaming continues. No one cares about the ones who finished ahead of us, tears stream down Oakey's cheeks as he accepts the trophy.

The mistakes of the last year are erased, the triumph is greater than words describe.

A new feeling is shown, it too cannot be replicated, as the hearts synchronize, the large knot of friendship, the sort that lasts forever, is felt in the single beating. Heads and hearts are one, nothing can change it, nothing ever will.

We are the Drumline.


	3. Anticiapation

First Show

**Summery:** the nervous ramblings of a snare drummer's first show.

**Rating:** K...nothin weird in here

**A/N: **This was originally a school assignment, enjoy! And i got an A+ on it )

* * *

Anticipation is mounting. 

The staccato of my heart beat merging with the 16th notes of the warm up. Our first performance was rapidly approaching; the countdown was down to mere minutes. 48 drumsticks slowly form into one sound, the varying pitches of rhythmic banging continue.

My drumstick slips from my sweaty palm, I am nervous. The contact with the snare drum creates a sharp snap in the darkness of the warm-up room. I am off beat, a few shifted glances fly my way, but soon the military like stillness returns.

The sudden opening of the door slowly interrupts the dark of the room. They are ready for us.

Without a word to one another, my fellow battery members and I line up in our lines, the pit behind us. 24 nervous teenage drummers stand in the hallway as our name is announced. The show has begun.

I am in the front as we enter the brightly lit gym. The crowd cheers as the pit sets themselves up. My father is sitting on the top row of the stands, with his video camera in hand. Beside him is his cousin; her daughter is a pit member. Beside her is my aunt, then my cousin . She is directly in my line of sight. My staring spot for the show is chosen.

She smiles a reassuring smile and I return a nervous one, wiping the sweat from my palms on my jeans. I aid in the connection of the electric Bass and keyboard, then fiddle with the amp until it sounds clear. We fall into our military strait line and the countdown until playtime begins.

3…2…1

The 3 subtle middle C notes send the bells and the xylophone into action.

24 hearts beat as one as the snare drums begin their tapping.

The two minutes and thirty seconds pass in a blur of rests, rolls and solos, leaving the song to a close. The final crescendo drives my heart into a frenzy of beats as the Quads and bass drums begin their flurry of movement. The final note nearly burst my eardrums and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

We were very good, they tell us as we load the van. We hit every step off, hop, skip and note.

Anticipation is fading as we wander back to the gym to experience the next adrenaline rush of another drumline performance.


	4. Differance

Difference

Summery: It's all different when you're the only girl in the line.

A/n: well I'm having trouble with the extreme sexism in my drumline, I made snare this year, and I beat a guy out to do it. He finds it unacceptable. And it hurts more than I can tell him, they're my brothers. So take this into consideration next time you give crap to a girl in your drumline just because they're female.

This might not be one of my better pieces. It hurts to just think about it, but it needs to be considered.

* * *

Drumline is the best thing in a person's high school life, no contest. The feeling of stepping on that field, being part of something bigger than just yourself, the discipline it takes to stand there, it changes you.

But it's different when you're the only girl in the line.

The harassment never stops, you say something, everyone twists it, you drop something, they kick it away, you do something wrong, they condemn you for it, you show weakness and they attack it.

More than anything I want to be part of all of them, just not the older sister type to the smaller ones, but a sister to all of them.

I work hard, they should know. The instructors tell me everyday that I can do it; they give me everything I need. Except the rest of the line.

It all started as we learned the forms, a shared jest between a saxophone and I, my stick missing the bag. I couldn't recover it in time, and we began marching.

The 8 counts ended and the echoing voice of the loudspeaker calls a reset. I turned to retrieve the stick of hickory, to see the bass player kicking it aside, blatantly looking right into my face and sneering.

Anger gets the best of me; I yell profanities at him and tell him to leave my stuff alone. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, I fight it down, weakness is not a thing to show in front of them.

We reset the chart and I can hear him complaining about me, tears threaten again.

During the break I ask a friend if I was in the right to scold him for it. He over hears it and tells me to do something to myself that makes the friend gasp, anger flares again and I yell at him. An instructor tells me to calm down and another bass player shouts at me.

Tears finally break through as I yell at the other drummer and the instructor, "If he is messing with my things you better freaking bet I will yell at him. If you have a problem with me at least be civil with me!"

I feel embarrassment flare up in my chest as many people stare, I walk onto the field, putting my head on my knees and crying. It's a day to live through, to have something to live for.

…

The next days are not better; I begin to think he is angry with me, for making a snare spot that he thought was rightfully his.

Testosterone confuses me.

…

As the first night of the football season dawns, I begin to pull on my uniform, dropping my sticks to the ground next to me. Another person on the line finds it amusing to kick my sticks around, trying to push my buttons.

I ignore it for a while, until more people join in. Anger and hurt overwhelms me.

A freshman bass drummer tosses me one of my sticks, smiling softly at me. He could care less that I'm a girl; I take care of him as much as I can.

The stick slips from my hand and hits the ground. The bass drummer that started all of the harassment sneers at me. Anger fires up.

I pick up my stick and hold it threateningly, "I swear, if you say another word I swear I will hit you," I bluff.

"Then hit me," He sneers, not expecting me to follow through.

I use all my strength to hit him. His shocked face making the guilt I feel worthwhile.

Various cries of "Abuse!" and "Harassment!" Follow me out of the room as I fight to hold back the tears.

They don't understand, they don't get that I just want their respect, not their friendship.

If they could respect me it would all be ok. If I could be part of the line I would be ok.

* * *

A/N: a more depressing piece, but not many people know what that feels like, not being a part of something you love so much.

And thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They made me smile!


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